a few years back
not recalling exactly when
within Halloween's fiery hearth
an acrylic moon hung all
jacked up on the right
suburban roads paved in euphoric evening
sidling windward
down residential streets to a main st. pub
to be with myself
nothing had me
in its fervent grip
clutching paper napkins
swaddled in
fluorescent orange orangutang fissures
pumpkin ornaments
drearily disheveled
spread out cross
the local whiskey counter
six pack family station wagon imagery
this location
this wretched county
kindled my bitten fingernails
along crescent full-time noons
it all led up to melancholic memories
of you in Brooklyn
being read Faulkner
by a middle-aged man in khakis
in some art village gallery
where poor bohemians waste all
their time and money
attempting to impress the impressionable
I walked home flattened
discouraged
throwing up imported
beer on
the dying geraniums
behind your mother's
old nail salon
back at my apartment
I recalled
why exactly
you
moved to Brooklyn
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